Duck and Cover

Duck and cover from the raw night of my obliteration
duck and cover her eyes from the searing kelvin temperatures of boiled flesh
pandemic rot and seethed persimmon
all hell-bent to hell.
How to explain the immensity,
the SS-20 Soviet missile impossibly huge
the Red Army thrust into my daughter’s eyes,
the question itself unsafe the story untellable.

Duck and cover my gulped panic that monsters live among us,
my small hands worthless
to the task of beating into pulp
their Visigothed impalers their visored visages
the galloped morbid ride
to nightmare countries’ perversity of the unkempt mind,

no, how?

How to explain this missile at the museum,
how to say what it does and
who it is meant to do it to?

We duck into the gift shop to recover
but its looming unsettling follows us,
the trailing shadow of Shiva the Destroyer
baked within an atom pie simmering in a shelter
somewhere deep in the earth
doom-triggered and unsheathed
like a rapist’s ripping cock.

Duck, and cover your curls from his burnt hands,
duck, and cover your soft and happy heart.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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